Home
by Chibikat the Canuck
Summary: People use distractions so as not to focus on who and what they have become. This is because we usually hate what we see. (Warning: HIGH ANGST CONTENT!)


  
  


Disclaimer: Have none, want none. Something like that. . . . but I do want them. o_O Stupid proverb that I messed up that doesn't apply to me anyway. v_v

  
  


Rating: Erm, PG-13 for oddness. Yes. Not for da chillin's! ^^

  
  


Author's Notes: This is just something that wanted me to write it one night, doing terrible, terrible homework. Here is the end result. Be afraid. ^^;; Warning: angstiness and some rather upsetting imagery ahead - have fun! XD

  
  


~*~

Home

~*~

  
  


//~*~//

  
  


Here I go again  
Up and down alone  
All my friends went home  
Years ago. . .  
  
All my toys are broken and  
So am I inside, mom  
The carnival has closed  
Years ago. . .

~Alice Cooper, "Years Ago"

  
  


//~*~//

  
  


I find it truly hard to pinpoint the exact moment in which my mind retreated into its shell of delusion. I have been like this for so long; all the days, months, and years have slowly blended together, unable to be picked apart or strained through the filter of logic that seems to elude me. I hope, dully, that the rain that beats upon my form will wash away the grime and dirt of my life, purify me, and leave me as gleaming and shimmering as the next normal person's being.

This does not happen. Heh, of course it would not happen, how silly of me to think that; if it is something that I want, I will not get it. I have accepted this mantra, though I still detest it thoroughly; even when I tried my hardest, I could not break that cycle that surrounds me. This damned theory has been proven time and time again, through small displays and large endeavors, everything adding up over time. 

There is that word again, 'time'. Such a ridiculously precious thing, taken for granted by those of my age, those younger, and sometimes, though rarely, those older. My eyes lock with the hard surface of the cement, slick with the merciless rain that continues to assault my being. As I continue to walk, my clothing plastered against my body, I see the distorted visages of myself stare back at me. My reflections in the puddles of rain question and taunt me, demanding to know why their keeper is so laughably weak and stupid.

Each rippled face is destroyed, one by one, as my feet bury themselves in the muddy water, coldness seeping through my socks and skin. I am vaguely aware that my body is trembling; indeed, it is ferociously chilly, especially when drenched with water. Everything is cold.

Everything.

Before I know it, my bedraggled feet have automatically taken me to the place that I call my house; it looms, dark and heavy, above my comparatively small self. Its walls reach high into the gray, nearly black clouds that plague the skies this evening. They hide the sun. 

I step from the wet, cold cement onto the wet, cold walkway that leads me to the wet, cold porch of my wet, cold estate. I sneeze, hugging my arms against my body in a vain search for warmth; shakily, I reach out with my right hand, grasping the brass doorknob, turning it. Unlocked, as usual. Surely, one day we will have robbers. We certainly own enough material possessions to attract them.

The expanse of the foyer that is my house looms, huge and foreboding, above my head. My squishing steps echo through the mostly empty domicile; I call out, to no one in particular, that I have returned safely.

As usual, the only one to answer me is the reverberation of my own voice. Morosely, I hang my head. 

I step out of my wooden geta sandals, which will no doubt be warped in the morning. I really should know better than to walk with them in the rain like that. Then again, I am the idiot that never learns, am I not? With this thought in mind, I begin to trudge to the staircase that leads to the upper hallway, where my room is located. I am cold and wet, and in desperate need of a change of clothes.

Up the stairs I go, my hand brushing softly against the marble handrail. It is cool to the touch, and I wonder dimly if there is anything in this house that is warm, this space that I live in. It is not my home. It is simply where I sleep.

My *home* was destroyed many years ago with a bottle of wine, a canister of pills, and a razor blade. Sometimes, when I close my eyes late at night, when everything and everyone in the world is sleeping, I can feel my home surrounding me. I can breathe in her scent of roses, I can taste the special chicken soup she used to make for me when I fell ill, I can hear her humming gently as she readies herself for the day, and I can even see her beautiful face if I concentrate hard enough. Yet, no matter how vivid my imagination is. . .

. . . never can I touch her. My arms will reach out in vain to the nothingness that surrounds me; when I am sad, her arms do not encircle me, drawing me against her warm, comforting body. When I want to cry on her shoulder because I have nowhere else to go, I find instead the emptiness of the four walls of my room.

I miss my home terribly. But no one can know this.

As my mind drowns and asphyxiates in these thoughts, my ever-faithful feet have taken me to the door of my room. I touch my damp palm to it. I find, with absolutely no surprise, that it is cold. Sighing soundlessly, I place my other hand against it, sliding the door open with a muted 'thunk'. Greeting me, with their dazzling smiles and radiating beauty, are both Akane Tendo and The Pigtailed Girl; whoever said that a picture steals a part of your soul was completely correct. In those posters, a part of each of those girls hangs, framed, frozen for my eyes. Their expressions will never change, their fists will never hit my face, and never, ever will they speak.

These oversized photos are not human, but they are the closest I shall ever come. At least they will always be waiting for me, and they will not leave me. Sighing, I plod into my room, water dripping steadily off my heavy clothing. I peel the yukata off my body, the water making my skin cold and clammy; it falls to the floor in a heap, and my hakama follows suit. My hands expertly undo the, admittedly, complicated knot that holds it up; once the obstacle of the entanglement on my hakama has been cleared, I begin to push it down, stepping out of the sopping piece of attire. 

I turn my head, searching for my drawers. As it so transpires, my head happens to be craned in the direction of where my full-length mirror is, a tribute to the vanity that has always plagued my family. Hesitantly, I step towards the reflecting piece of glass.

My, how skinny I have become. . .

Furrowing my eyebrows in confusion, I touch the side of my face; suddenly, it looks much older than seventeen. My eyes trail down the penumbra that has become my body; I realize that my appetite has been decreasing steadily, but I thought I was simply growing out of that "awkward phase" in life. I find my gaze resting on my abdomen, seeing a sight that still makes me recoil slightly.

Scars intertwine with each other on my stomach and lower chest, harshly white, and ugly by all meanings of the word. Some are smaller than others, but still are equally disturbing and bring back painful memories. I find my hand trailing lightly over them, outlining their shape, forcing me to reminisce about times better left buried in my subconscious.

Images assault me; images of my father, holding his bokken over my already bloodied and broken form, tears and the constant stream of red cascading down my forehead blurring my vision. I try weakly to defend myself, however the constant blows to my body prevent me from doing so; after what seems like an eternity, I am left in the puddle of my own blood, faced with the arduous task of gaining the strength to cry out for help.

This happened to me at a startlingly frequent rate. However, soon bokkens turned into katanas; one time, I seriously feared for my life, and when I blacked out, I was not entirely sure that I would wake up again.

That I would *want* to wake up again.

Nevertheless, I did not wish to return to the realm of the living, so of course, I opened my eyes to drink in the sterilized box of a room that housed me in the hospital. It was, perhaps, the longest few weeks in my relatively short life, those days spent in that God awful place. You see, seven foot demons I can face. Ghouls, goblins, monstrosities, and anything remotely gruesome are things that I do not fear; however, the prick of a needle sends chills down my spine and causes goose bumps to rise on my now unusually pale flesh. Such a ridiculous phobia, this fear of needles I possess.

These memories flit through my mind in a matter of seconds, my eyes never leaving my reflection in the mirror. My hair, left unruly and askew by the rain, is plastered to my forehead, still quite damp. The dark bags under my dull grey eyes hang, evidence of the insomnia that enjoys toying with me from time to time. I am tired, yet I cannot sleep. Heh, is that not my life, summed up in one sentence? 

Sighing despondently, I allow my gaze to fall from my less-than-desirable body to the tatami mats that cover the floor of my room. My feet scratch lazily over them, moving to the drawers pressed against the wall nearest my mirror. I randomly choose one, opening it; displayed for me are a pile of yet more yukatas, a few undershirts for those odd days that I wish to wear the school uniform, and the sweatshirt I distinctly remember wearing when I had my friends nearly killed by a storm at sea.

Well. I think I shall wear the sweatshirt.

Picking it up, the cotton feels surprisingly soft against my hands. I raise it to my face, and inhale deeply; it smells of the ocean, as if it had been worn on those beaches just yesterday. Despite the fact that we could very well have been stuck on that island for a while, and that something akin to what happens in 'The Lord of The Flies' may very well have occurred, those days spent on the sunny shores of Togenkyou are some of my happiest memories. While the circumstances of that island were extraordinary at many times, it gave me time to think and contemplate. I looked at the ocean, and wondered what it would feel like to just start swimming and not stop. . . of course, if my mind ever wandered to those topics, I would simply push them aside and fill my brain with musings of both the lovely Pigtailed Girl and equally beautiful Akane Tendo.

It was certainly a good thing they ignored me the entire time, and either fought with each other or clung to Ranma Saotome. That way, I could live in as many delusions as I wanted to, I think sarcastically, pulling the sweater over my head. I am dimly aware of the fact that the hooded sweatshirt is much looser on me than it was at Togenkyou. I am slightly more cognizant of the fact that I do not give a damn. Rummaging through a second drawer, I pull out a simple pair of pants; slipping them on, I look at my reflection in the mirror once more. 

With the 'normal' clothing on, I look like a completely different person. Smaller, weaker, no longer noble in my eyes or the eyes of others, not that I was before. Much like a shadow.

Wonderful. I am not even a person anymore; I am simply a shadow. I allow something that could be discernable as a laugh escape through my lips. A scarcely visible, incredulous smile is plastered on my face as I turn from the mirror, walking over to the closet on the other side of the room. I listen to my bare feet scratch along the tatami mats, creating a steady rhythm.

*Scratch scratch scratch.*

I arrive at my closet, opening the sliding door with ease. Kneeling down, I clear a few stray articles of dirty clothing that litter its floor; after long moments of searching, I find what I am looking for. It is dusty, and barely discernable, but I outline it with my fingers despite this. Finding the small indentation in the floor, I lift the trap door that I created myself some years ago. It does not take me much time at all to find what I am looking for. My hands reach down into the space, bringing out with them a small chest of sorts. I stand.

*Scratch scratch scratch.*

In the middle of the room, I place the box down on the floor. My fingers run over its smooth, leather surface; cracks have formed on it from age, and the once proud mahogany of its casing has faded a dull, sluggish brown. However, that does not matter; it is still beautiful to me. Delicately touching my finger to its metal latch, I realize that I am missing something.

*Scratch scratch scratch.*

Over to my sleeping futon I plod; with a deep sigh, I lift up the flimsy piece of cloth that I call my bed. Underneath it, nearly buried in the straw of the mats underneath, is a small, brass key. I pluck it from its hiding place, scrutinizing it for a moment.

*Scratch scratch scratch.*

It fits perfectly, as it always does. I turn the key in the lock carefully; if it broke, so would my heart. Small relief floods my system when the lock clicks softly, its way of communicating to me that the treasures located inside of it are ready to be seen after all this time. The lid of my box opens with a whining creak.

Inside is a window to my soul.

First, I pull out a slightly crumpled piece of paper; I unfold and attempt to smooth the creases out somewhat, though not succeeding. On the piece of paper is a sketch; it is simple, of a bird perched upon the branch of the tree that grows in my backyard. Some people would consider it lovely. It was one of the first - and last - drawings I ever did, and even to this day I am proud of it. Smiling a tiny bit, I place the drawing beside me, my other hand disappearing into my treasure box.

My hand grasps a more three-dimensional object, substantial in its weight. Pulling it out, I see it to be a small, agonizingly beautiful sculpture in the form of a rose. One of the petals is broken off; I distinctly recall this incident, a few years back, when I was having a quarrel with my sister. That day, in arts class, she had created this sculpted rose, made out of clay, and she was very proud of it. While I was also pleased for her successes in that class, I had been having a rather irksome day. As such, we ended up getting into a fight about some ridiculously small triviality; so incensed was my younger sister, she threw her small-yet-heavy sculpture at my head, intending to knock my unconscious. It hit the wall, like so many other things in our lives have. Eventually, our argument came to a close, and she stormed off, still obviously frustrated by my actions; looking down at Kodachi's work of art, I wanted desperately to crush it, just to spite her.

Yet. . . I did not. Instead, I had an overwhelming urge to keep it safe, to put it in a place where no further harm could come to it; the only space I could think of was my collection of treasures, previously hidden in my closet. I place it gently beside the picture.

I continue to probe through my medium-sized chest, extracting from it news clippings that concerned my standings in various kendo tournaments, pictures of old friends long friends that are forgotten but not gone, and a few haiku poems that I have written over the course of my life. Curious, I look at one.

"Wind breathes over hills,

children play in its caress,

yet this eludes me."

It is as meaningful now as it was four years ago when I wrote it. Sighing gently, I scatter the papers around my form, spreading them out on the floor. Looking down into my miniature trunk, I find it to be devoid of all but two things. 

I pull out of it a photo; this too is ravaged by the God-awful thing we call time, and the colours have began to run. Notwithstanding, she looked radiant and beautiful. The flowing, slightly curly, ebony hair that Kodachi inherited billows about her face, accenting her pale complexion. Her black locks are adorned with white and red roses, the pattern on her kimono matching her hair decorations perfectly. Ruby red lips are forever locked in a dazzling, warm, unbelievably kind smile, and she holds close to her chest a bundle of blankets; wide, grey eyes peek out from beneath them, as do some stray tresses of chestnut brown.

I briefly wonder why she hated me enough to kill herself. It is then I realize that this does not require an explanation. It is easy and understandable to hate me.

Carefully, I place that precious picture down in front of me. My hand reaches into the chest one, last time, drawing from it an elongated object. I rest it in my hands, and grab its handle; with a short tug, I pull it from its sheath.

The knife blade glints in the small amount of light that hangs from the ceiling in my room. I catch my deadened reflection in the razor-sharp edge, hating everything I saw. What a failure I was, a complete waste. I really did try to become the best kendoist, really I did; I am so sorry that I allowed Ranma Saotome, and a litany of others to defeat me in battle. I failed once, and I deteriorated into the mess that I am now.

I close my eyes, unable to stop the flood of tears that are drawn forth. Everything, too much to handle right now. I cannot face it now, nor will I ever be able to; I know this for a fact, it is the one rock in my volatile and tumultuous existence.

With a choked sob, I press the blade to my wrist. Why am I crying now? Soon, I will not have to worry about anything at all; not about kendo, not about money, not about friends, not about. . . about family. Everything shall be over, and I shall be free.

I shall return *home*.

With this in mind, I violently slash across my wrist; flecks of blood spray everywhere, and pain shoots up my arm, forcing me to bite down on my tongue to quell the outcry that threatened to issue from my throat. With blood soaked fingers, I shakily take the dagger in my other hand, resting it against the vein in my other wrist, mimicking my motions from before. This time, it does not hurt so much.

The knife drops to the floor of my room, and I watch blood gush from the gaping, self-inflicted wounds on my wrists. Blood dribbles down my palms, creating the effect of a crimson spider-web being spun across my hands. Shakily, I manage to stand up; the red drips onto my sweatshirt, the stench of blood by far overpowering the once soothing scent of the ocean. I feel faint; swooning, I fall backwards, my hands impacting dully on the tatami mats beside me.

I am going home, and that is all that matters now. I know this. Nothing else matters at all. I am going home. . .

It is at this time that I hear the distinct sound of my sister's voice, coming closer to my room. She is saying something, however the intense pounding of my heart in my ears forbids me to understand what she is vocalizing. Her footsteps stop outside my door; I feel horror in the pit of my stomach as she begins to open it. She steps into the room, still talking, her head down, obviously not having seen me yet.

*Scratch scratch scra. . .tch. . .*

Her eyes follow the trail of blood, up to my weak, pathetic form. I can see every vein on her face as it drains of all colour; her eyes become wide, and her hands begin to shake. Suddenly, I feel so fucking selfish.

Oh gods, I am so sorry, I did not want you to cry, I did not want you to find me. . .! I want to tell you to please stop the tears that stream soundlessly down your face as you behold my form, bloodied and pale. I want you to know that I love you. Why did I never tell you that I love you? Why did I do this; no, I do not want to go home anymore, I do not want to!

My eyes, they are beginning to close. No, I do not want my eyes to close. . . please, stay open. . .

The last sound I ever hear is that of my little sister screaming in horror, pain, sadness, and confusion, and I know who is to blame.

Welcome home, Tacchi.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


. . . well. Um, that turned out a lot more disturbing than I wanted it to. o_O 

Yep, just a stupid thing that I decided I wanted to write a couple nights ago, and here it is. ^^;; Comments and criticism very much appreciated! Please review! ^_^

  
  


~Chibikat

  
  



End file.
